


we will call this place our home

by alltheprettylittlewolves



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Arranged Marriage, F/M, First Time, Fluff, but sober sex, drunken antics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-01-24 19:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21343600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheprettylittlewolves/pseuds/alltheprettylittlewolves
Summary: During Jon's visits to Winterfell, he was always so quiet and serious, seeming to prefer Arya and Robb’s company to that of his intended. Now that Jon and Sansa's wedding day has finally arrived, she wonders if her new husband likes her. Tormund helps her find out.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 308
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2019





	we will call this place our home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilzipop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilzipop/gifts).

> lilzipop requested a Rhaegar wins!AU, an arranged marriage AU, or an AU in which Robb remains King in the North with Sansa as his Hand and Jon his Master of War. I went with a combination of the first two. The title is from “North” by Sleeping At Last.

It was all Tormund's fault. There was never going to be a bedding ceremony at Jon and Sansa's wedding; Jon was set against the idea. If not for Tormund and his fermented goat's milk, there would not have been any stealing, either.

Sansa had imagined her wedding hundreds of times. She had always known it would be Jon who wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. They had been betrothed since they were children, their joint future mapped out by their fathers. But in all of those daydreams, she had never pictured wildlings at her wedding feast.

She did not object to inviting them. When Jon had mentioned it in a letter, she had been taken aback, it was true, but the Free Folk, as Jon called them, had fought side-by-side with him against the Dead. For that, Sansa could be welcoming and gracious towards them.

King Rhaegar did not feel quite so charitable, judging by the way he scowled. And unless Sansa was mistaken, the fact that the wildlings did not kneel to the king rather amused Jon.

Rising from her chair, Sansa crossed the hall towards her wildling guests. Her mother looked horrified to see her approaching Jon's friends, but Arya almost grinned at her. They were Arya's friends as well, Sansa supposed. Arya had sneaked off to join the fight, which had been fortunate for everyone, as she had been the one to end the Night King. Her "dancing lessons" when they were younger had apparently involved more blades than any dancing Sansa had ever done.

Sansa had not done much dancing yet—bladeless or otherwise—at her wedding feast. Jon had danced with her only once, his posture stiff and a grimace on his face. Pushing that out of her mind, she smiled at the Free Folk.

A man with a bushy red beard greeted Sansa enthusiastically and gestured to the chair next to himself before she could say more than _hello_. His name was Tormund Giantsbane, he said, though the way he claimed to have earned the name Giantsbane was simply too absurd to be believed. Sansa's cheeks flamed with a blush.

"Here," Tormund said, offering her a cup of something that made her nose tingle when she brought it close to her face. "Have a drink with us."

Not wanting to be rude, Sansa took a cautious sip. The thick liquid tasted like fire, scorching its way down her throat. Sansa coughed, to the merriment of those gathered around the table. Tormund laughed the loudest, but it wasn't a cruel sound. He laughed as if she had just told a marvellously funny joke, not as if she was the joke.

Across the hall, Jon smiled at something Arya said. Sansa fought the urge to fidget. During his visits to Winterfell, he had always been so quiet and serious, seeming to prefer Arya and Robb's company to that of his intended.

She took another drink. It didn't burn quite so much the second time. The third sip was even easier.

Tormund beamed in approval. "This feast is livelier than I expected," he said. "I thought you'd all spend the whole time kneeling. And the food is good." He took a huge bite of a lemon cake. "Is it true that your fathers made this match for you when you were children?"

"They did. One of my earliest memories is meeting Jon and being told that we would marry someday."

That _someday_ had been delayed by the war against the Dead. Sansa would have wed Jon before he'd marched off to answer the Lord Commander's call for men and dragonglass. She had been old enough, but when Jon had stopped at Winterfell, he had given her one of his solemn looks, touched her hand, and told her he would return.

She took a few more drinks. Her cup was nearly empty.

Tormund shook his head. "And you kneelers think _our_ ways are strange. Father or no, I'd not let any man tell me who to bed."

"Not even if he chose a bear?" a woman said with a smirk.

Tormund laughed his booming laugh. Sansa did not want to know why a bear might appeal to him.

Her muddled thoughts wandered to images of herself and Jon in another life, beyond the Wall. She knew the wildlings stole their women. Would Jon want to steal her if it was his decision, and his alone? Would she want to be stolen by him?

As if he knew what she was thinking, Jon met her gaze and smiled like he had a secret. Sansa shivered.

Later, she would wonder in blushing mortification what made her confess to Tormund, "I have often wondered whether Jon wanted to break our engagement." Her voice, she was surprised to find, slurred a bit, and her head felt light enough to float away.

Tormund hummed thoughtfully. "I think that's just how his face looks. Brooding. It's nothing to do with you."

Sansa wanted to be Jon's choice. She blinked up at Tormund. He somehow appeared both out of focus and too sharp.

"Do women ever steal men beyond the Wall, or is it always the other way around?" she asked, feeling ridiculous the instant the words were out. Their women looked so fierce, though. Like they would fight for what they wanted.

"I have never heard of any," he said, and she did not like the knowing grin that crept across his face, "but if you can manage to get a horse, I can help you steal your husband, if you'd like."

* * *

"Seven Hells, Tormund," Jon said. "Where are you taking me? I need to get back to…" His voice trailed off as Sansa urged her mare towards them. "Sansa?"

Tormund clapped his friend on the shoulder. Then, without warning, he lifted Jon as if he weighed nothing and threw him over the back of the horse.

"_Now_ it's a wedding," Tormund said. Jon's muttered threats had no effect on him.

Grunting, Jon hauled himself up so he sat behind Sansa. After a moment, his hands settled on her waist, his touch feather-light.

"Sansa?" he said. "Where are we going?"

"I am stealing you. It was Tormund's idea."

Jon let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Why would you need to steal me? We're married." He gave the cloak around her shoulders a light tug. "Did you forget?"

It had seemed such a good plan in the Great Hall, with Tormund's vile drink clouding her head. She had thought that if Jon allowed himself to be stolen by her, it would mean something. Now, in the brisk night air, she felt silly.

"That was done on your father's command," she said. "Not because you wanted it."

The silence stretched out for what felt like forever before Jon moved his arms around her. He spoke against her ear, making something delightful tighten in Sansa's lower belly.

"Very well. Steal me, then."

Oh. It _had_ been a good plan.

They did not have to ride far. There was an abandoned cottage not twenty minutes away on horseback. Jon insisted upon helping her down from the horse and carrying the bag of supplies she had packed. He looked unimpressed with the missing patches of roof and crumbling chimney. Given that they had a dry, furnished chamber waiting for them back at Winterfell, she couldn't blame him. Sansa placed the bedroll on the mossy flagstones beneath one of the holes overhead, so they could see the stars.

She looked down at her gown—her complicated, lovely gown. This was their wedding night. He was her husband. Buoyed by whatever false courage remained from Tormund's drink, she took a deep breath and asked Jon to help her undress.

Sansa could not tell whether it was nerves or a chill that made Jon's fingers shake. He stopped when she was down to her shift, his hands moving up to unpin her hair and unravel her braids. His touch was so gentle it could have sent her to sleep where she stood.

"There," he said. "Lie down, sweet girl."

Sansa liked the way his voice sounded when he called her that. She stumbled a bit as she crossed to the bedroll and wriggled beneath the furs. She had chosen the right spot. The night was clear; she could see thousands of pinpricks of light overhead. It would have been enchanting, if only the cottage would stop moving.

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

"The stars are spinning."

A deep chuckle sounded from closer than she expected—right next to her on the bedroll.

"Go to sleep," Jon murmured. "The stars will be still again tomorrow."

* * *

Sansa woke to a dull ache in her head and a strong arm around her waist. When she rolled over to look at Jon, he smiled at her.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

Horrified at her own drunken antics, but otherwise well enough.

"I am fine," she said stiffly. The headache was too slight to be worth mentioning.

"Your constitution must be better than mine. I get very ill the morning after a night of drinking. Particularly if Tormund was involved in the drinking." Propping himself up on one elbow, he looked up through the roof at the pink sky, and then at her. "Shall we ride back and break our fast?"

"Oh!" Sansa sat up, squinting as she struggled to summon up a memory of packing for their little journey. "I brought food. I think."

Her provisions turned out to be several rather squashed lemon cakes. It had seemed like ideal sustenance the night before. As she fetched them, she caught Jon staring at her, his cheeks reddening. Now that they had more than moonlight, he could see through her thin shift, she realised with a start. She hurried back beneath the furs.

The cakes tasted no less sweet for her rough treatment of them. As Jon brought one to his mouth, the sleeve of his tunic fell down, revealing a tattered, yellowing strip of cloth tied around his wrist. Sansa's heart leapt up into her throat. The red thread she had used to embroider a dragon on one end had unravelled, but the grey direwolf was still there. It was the favour Sansa had given him when they were children and he'd played Aemon the Dragonknight for her during one of his visits to Winterfell.

"You still have that?" she whispered.

"Oh," Jon said, his blush returning. "Yes. I… Well, I wore it to war. For luck." He gave her a smile. "It must have worked. I survived."

He was not at war now, and he was still wearing it. Sansa caught her lower lip between her teeth as her belly flipped.

"I am glad you survived," she said.

"Me too."

Sansa inched closer to him, silently willing him to bridge the gap and kiss her, kiss her, kiss her. Jon's gaze darted back and forth between her eyes and mouth several times before he took a steadying breath, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to hers. When she brought her hands up to tangle in his dark hair, he sighed in the most delicious way. He tasted like lemons and sugar. Sansa let herself get lost in his sweet, slow kisses.

"Perhaps we could stay here a while longer," he said, tugging her closer and kissing his way down her neck.

It was half indecent, how those simple words made her blood run hotter. Each press of his lips against her throat stoked a fire within her.

"We could," she managed to say.

Jon toyed with the hem of her shift. "May I?"

Sansa nodded. Jon moved with an almost reverent sort of slowness, peeling away her shift and small clothes. Once she was entirely bare, he _stared_ at her. She had not expected that hungry gaze, nor had she expected the way her whole body drew pleasantly taut when he touched her. He was still wearing the tunic and small clothes he'd slept in, which simply could not be allowed. She wanted to look at him as he'd looked at her, with nothing in the way. Feeling bold, she helped him shrug out of his rumpled clothing.

Gods, he was beautiful. He would not appreciate her saying so, perhaps, but there was no other word for it. Sansa traced the peaks and valleys of his muscles, heat swirling in her abdomen at the way each sweep of her hands made his breathing hitch.

"Sansa," he rasped.

When she lay back so he could lower his body between her thighs, a smile rose to her lips at his shaky, unrehearsed movements. She liked that he seemed new to this—that they were discovering it together.

She had once thought her wedding night would be something to be endured, but this was something to be treasured. She was glad they had waited until her mind was once again sharp, so she could be sure to remember these new experiences. The scrape of his teeth against her neck; the satisfying weight of his body pressing her into the bedroll; the low rumble of his moans; the brilliant, blazing new sensation that was building inside of her, climbing higher and higher.

Her heart stuttered at the way Jon looked at her as if she was the most miraculous thing. She could build love with this man, stone by stone. She knew she could.

After, Jon stayed there on top of her for a moment, heavy-eyed and sated. Her husband for true. The sun was higher in the sky now; she could have stayed happily as they were until it went down and darkness fell again, but Jon's stomach rumbled.

"We should go back," he said, reluctantly clambering to his feet and reaching down to help her up.

They packed their things and dressed between stolen kisses. On the way out, Jon looked a bit bashful as he took her hand in his.

"Are you sore?" he asked.

Sansa ducked her head. "No, I am fine."

"Good."

She barely registered him bending down before she found herself slung over his shoulder, being carried towards the horse.

"Jon!" she said through her laughter. "What are you doing?"

"I should think it's obvious," he said, and she supposed it was. "I am stealing you."

"Very well." Sansa grinned. "Steal me, then."


End file.
